Terribly Inappropriate Davekat Fanfiction
by tholluxander
Summary: you notice he hasn't taken off his sunglasses. Is he blind? perhaps. oh god,, you're sexualizing a blind person. you absolute sinner.
1. Chapter 1

Art school seemed like a bad idea… until you took your first figure drawing class.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and the last thing you want to be doing today is waking up to go and draw in a dim classroom smelling of pot, surrounded by losers with no direction. But that is apparently what art school is.

You have always been what your teachers and other adult role models called a "prodigy", even ever since you were very young. Your work was framed and praised and entered in art shows. It helped had a tragic backstory and stark white hair, and being able to appear sweet and innocent didn't hurt. The general public went wild, and you were offered merit scholarships and full financial aid to most art schools in the country. So here you are, partaking in the fate practically forced upon you by your superiors.

Its not really that you don't enjoy making art, its the intense pressure placed on your fragile, pale shoulders since the first time you made a mark on paper with a crayon. Also? this is the third art college you have transferred to, and its the same as all the others. Everyones stoned and their drawings are all about "feelings" or some metaphorical shit made up at the last second so that they wouldn't have to admit that the mess of colors on their page was what they true during some kind of crazy trip. You have personally found drawing your feelings (and drug use) to be ineffective. You found it impossible not to focus on the work you were doing, and the line quality, color, composition, and other shit about it which had been drilled into your head for the past roughly 18 years of your life. Instead, you yell a lot and write long, explicit letters to those who you hate, and then burn them, muttering to yourself like you are crazed.

But, there seems to be nothing you can do about it . Your fate seems to be that of endless art instructions, and praise of your work, and articles written about your "fascinating yet tragic life story and unusual gift".

You were partially snoozing on your arm when the model walked in, and you wished you had seen him sooner so you could have maximized your time looking at him because as soon as your eyes met the masterpiece which is his very being your heart froze.

"So, where do I stand?"

he asks, lazily, pulling off his clothes. His clothes. Taking them off. In front of you. You are certain that your very pale skin has just flushed to a shade almost equivalent to your eyes, perhaps redder. The art teacher has given him instructions but you are too focused on the way his back arches as he stretches while he walks, the barely noticeable ripple of muscles under his skin, the slight pudge around his belly and thighs. His face is framed by a halo of pale blonde curls, which, was obviously bleached because they do not match his hair in… other places… good lord… and now you notice his butt. You are an absolute pervert, and are ashamed at yourself for sexualizing anyone's body. you put your head down on your desk for a moment, pressing your hot cheek to the almost freezing metal, and curse at yourself silently.

In the art world, most artists live by the belief that the human body itself is a work to be appreciated, and not sexualized as much as worshipped and praised.

"Everything is art and were all stoners."

and, as sexually confused as you are (or, perhaps, used to be, judging by your reaction to this terrific bastard) you agreed with it, and were disgusted at those who dropped their maturity and giggled at the nude models who had chosen to come in and stand for them. But now you are no worse than they are, blushing like a fool over this random person who is simply doing his job.

When you look up you immediately have to duck back down again and silently swear because is there possibly a more appealing pose they could have had him in? his back is facing to everyone drawing him, but his shoulder is turned outwards and he looks down at the ground, and thats when you notice he hasn't taken off his sunglasses. Is he blind? perhaps. oh god,, you're sexualizing a _blind person_. you absolute _sinner_.

But then you notice that the rest of the class is hard at work sketching this masterpiece which will certainly not be reflected in their own work, and you buckle down and do your job, falling into the routine of measure, mark, line, repeat, until your mind is numb from the process which will earn you what in the long run you are after; praise and recognition.


	2. Chapter 2

After class you linger for as long as possible, like the total sinful horrible pervert you are. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he pulls back on his pants and tousles his hair, still never moving his sunglasses. As soon as he turns you move your tiny ass the fuck out of there, actually bumping right into your stoner friend.

Well, one of several stoner friends. But he is the most stoner-like out of all of them. probably about seven feet tall with a mass of wild curly black hair, hiding sparking, mischievous liquid eyes. He is known to frequently wear clown paint, actually. but no one questions it. He's an abstract contemporary artist. You drop your sketchbooks and pens all over the floor, startled. You think someone so tall would be more noticeable.

"Hey there lil' motherfucker!"

His hoarse voice greets you cheerfully, and you, although grudgingly admitted, are glad to see him.

"yo man, i gotta not help but be askin', What the motherfuck is goin' on up in that lil skull thing of yours? Ya know, Your, uh,..."

He has to pause and think of the word, which is not surprising considering the odor of a certain drug wafting from his sweatshirt.

"my brain?"

you grumble

"Yeah! thats the one, whats on your little mind, my bro? ya seem to be in all o a motherfuckin swoon, or somethin' of the haps, considerable' you got your little face all in a flush!"

Your "little face" turns redder.

Nothing. I'm fine. Absolutely fucking perfect.

He laughs in your face and drags you off to lunch, and you tell him everything. And you know what? as obnoxious and stoned and sentimental and affectionate as Gamzee Makara is, He's a really good friend and listener. He says he's also noticed the beautiful boy from your art class, and agrees that his ass is fantastic. He and Gamzee have Art Existentialism together, and he is apparently a transfer student, which is why you had never seen him before. Oh, and he's also apparently not blind. Which is a relief.

You are still a horrible pervert, but at least your best friend agrees with you. Even though he's a stoner with a dick piercing.

When you get back to your dorm theres a fucking exorcism altar complete with a salt circle and a demon trap drawn on your door. Again. Someone needs to tell the Devout Christian Demon Hunter Whateverthefucktheyare Club to get a grip. Just to spite the one you notice lurking in the hallway, you reach down, pick up a handful of the salt, and throw it over your shoulder.

When you get inside your room you throw yourself onto your made bed. You're sick of this. Sick of stupid comments about your hair and eyes and skin, not being able to go outside in the summer without an opaque layer of sunscreen, and especially these absolute fucking losers. Frequent exorcism attempts by these washed-up wackos who want to pretend that they're part of something bigger, something inhuman and special, something original. So they target you as a channel for their insecurities and dreams and wants, not realizing how it affects you so long as they can target the "weird demon kid". You have a nickname, not just by them. "Satan". And even those who couldn't care less about your pigmentation have other reasons to harass you. "Tr*nny" has been written on your door at least twice, and your old roommate refused to live with you any longer after he caught you shirtless. There has been an attempt at a petition to move you to the girl's dormitories. Even if the law is on your side, people can still be insufferable fucking asshats.

Luckily, the worst of it comes from a very small minority of psychopaths who would rather target some poor albino trans kid instead of doing something useful with their lives.

But you've already made up your mind.

You dye your hair raven in the sink with the bottle of black sludge you purchased earlier the other day. Maybe now people won't do a double take when they look at you. Maybe now they will be less inclined to call you names and point at you, numb to your feelings and selfish and light in their intentions.

You do not sleep that night.


End file.
